In a development that has shocked absolutely no one, the streets of Mogadishu are once again ringing with the gentle pitter-patter of automatic weapons fire, as Somalia’s perennial election dispute escalates from shouting matches to lead exchange. The British Foreign Office, in a fit of paternalistic concern, has warned that the Somali state may be about to do what it has done, with admirable consistency, for the past three decades: collapse into a heap of warring fiefdoms.
But let us not be too hasty to judge. After all, who are we, denizens of a country that once spent six months arguing about the colour of a new passport, to criticise another nation’s democratic process? Our own election rows involve men in suits trading insults over cucumber sandwiches. Theirs involve rocket-propelled grenades and the occasional beheading. It’s all just political theatre, really. One is merely staged in a slightly more flammable venue.
The trigger for this latest symphony of violence? The usual suspects: accusations of voter fraud, the refusal of a sitting president to leave office, and the profound inability of various clan strongmen to agree on whether the coffee should be served before or after the assassination attempts. Somalia’s electoral commission, that most noble of institutions, has been reduced to issuing statements from bunkers while the actual voting takes place at gunpoint.
The UK’s warning, delivered with the gravitas of a headmaster discovering a fire in the chemistry lab, notes that ‘state collapse could have devastating consequences for regional stability.’ Quite. Because Somalia has been a beacon of stability up to now. The country’s last functioning government collapsed when I was still young enough to believe that breakfast gin was a joke. Since then, it has been a paradise of pirate enterprises, Islamist militias, and the world’s most enthusiastic users of technicals.
But fear not. The British government, ever the optimist, has pledged to help. They will send diplomats, who will sit in air-conditioned compounds and produce reports. They will send aid, which will be stolen before it reaches anyone. They will, above all, continue to hold stern press conferences expressing their deep concern. And if that doesn’t work, they may even consider sending a strongly worded tweet.
Meanwhile, the citizens of Mogadishu go about their daily business, which increasingly involves diving for cover when the neighbours start arguing. The sound of gunfire has become the city’s unofficial soundtrack, a grim drumbeat to the daily struggle for water, food, and internet access. The election, such as it is, has become a contest between the least-worst outcome, which is still likely to involve a lot of corpses.
But let us not dwell on the grim details. Instead, let us savour the irony that a country so dysfunctional that its parliament once failed to achieve a quorum because half the MPs had fled the country, is now lecturing Somalia on the importance of democratic governance. We are like a fat man telling a starving man to watch his cholesterol.
In the end, the only thing certain about Somalia’s future is uncertainty. The guns will fall silent eventually, only because the ammunition runs out. The politicians will eventually sign a peace deal, which will last until the ink is dry. And the British Foreign Office will continue to issue warnings, because that is what they do. It is their contribution to world stability: a steady stream of well-worded alarms that nobody acts upon.
So here’s to Mogadishu, that lovely seaside resort where the gunfire is free and the gin is, sadly, imported. May your elections be marginally less violent than your civil wars. And may the British government’s concern eventually translate into something more useful than a press release. Though I won’t hold my breath. I need it to power my inhaler.
